The Adventure of An Espresso and Five Muffins
by Pickwick12
Summary: John Watson is a Speedy's barista, Mycroft is addicted to poppy seed muffins, and Sherlock is on drugs. Sounds funny, but isn't. I took the silliest possible plot prompt and made it serious. Better than it sounds (I hope). Non-slash
1. Speedy's

**A/N: This prompt came from (a joke by) superpitching on Ravelry:**

Mycroft is overweight and struggling with a lemon and poppyseed muffin addiction (shout out to opiates, works with him being lazy and not liking legwork in the books!). Sherlock is a caffiene addled speed freak! John Watson joins them as a barista on some godawful return to work scheme, and ends up weaning Sherlock down to Americanos with a mere 6 shots, and persuades Mycroft to start stocking croissants instead of the opium riddled muffins. Anyone can run with this plot if they'd like! Or alternatively, pretend you never read this. It's all good

** I started to write it as a parody, but I couldn't bear not to take on the challenge of trying to make something serious out of something so very silly. Thanks for reading. **

**Speedy's**

I got a job in the summer of '10. I'd been trying to live off an army disability stipend for a while, but it just wasn't cutting it in urban London, and I wasn't ready to go back to practicing medicine. The sight of sick people, well, that took me right back to the battlefield and all the friends who'd died under my hands. That's why I put in an application at Speedy's Café, a restaurant by night and coffee shop by day.

"That's wonderful, John!" said my therapist, who noted it on my file and told me that if it worked out, somebody might be calling me about doing adverts encouraging other veterans to get back to work. I just stared at her. I mean, I don't really blame them for trying. They don't have that many success stories to tout, not stories that start where mine did.

You don't know where it started, and that's how I like it. Nobody knows—well, that's not quite true. I'm getting this all the wrong way around. Sher— he would say I always get things in the wrong order.

The real action started on my first day of work. Our first customer of the day, right at 7:31 a.m., was an extremely heavyset man with short, brown hair and an umbrella. He came up to my little counter, where I was primed and ready to make any drink he might request, but instead he said, "Lemon poppyseed muffins. Five."

I stared at him for a moment in disbelief, before opening the case and divesting it of five muffins. These things weren't homemade-size muffins. They were the oversized kind that come in plastic packages, the kind most people make an entire breakfast of and end up throwing away the bottom because they can't finish it.

Gravely, the man handed me a debit card, and I caught his name because it was so unusual—Mycroft Holmes. He took the muffins and went for a table in a far corner, away from the window.

I tried not to stare, but he was the only one who stayed to consume his order in the shop. For the next two and a half hours, I watched the London drizzle and made a few coffees for women in yoga outfits, but the man in the corner never moved. Every half hour, like clockwork, he opened one of the muffins and downed it. Finally, at 10:00 a.m., he rose, took his umbrella, and left.

Ten minutes or so later, another customer came in. He was tall, at least six feet, with a mop of dark curly hair and extremely thin features. He was shaking, like someone coming down from a drug high. "Qua—quadruple espresso," he said. I looked around, wishing someone else was there to ask if I was supposed to serve him. I didn't want to be responsible for somebody having a heart attack. Unfortunately, Angelo was a very laid-back owner, and he wasn't supposed to check in for hours.

Doubtfully, I made the drink, and the man tried to get his card out of his wallet, only to drop it on the floor three times before finally succeeding in getting it onto the counter. "Why don't you stay and have your drink here?" I asked weakly, trying to sound pleasant. That way, I figured that if he went into cardiac arrest or something, I would at least be around to resuscitate him or call an ambulance.

"Too—too busy," he said, already starting to drink the ridiculous beverage. He made for the door, and I shook my head, wishing I had known what to do. In my confusion, I hadn't taken time to look at his name, but I saw it now, on the café's copy of his receipt: Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. Their names were burned in my memory. I couldn't decide if it was more absurd to imagine people with those names being related or not being related.

The rest of the morning was uneventful, and Angelo finally appeared in the early afternoon, sailing through the ancient door with the usual smile plastered on his face.

"You met the Holmes brothers?" was the first thing out of his mouth.

"Brothers, then," I said, trying to keep my annoyance out of my voice. If he knew them, I thought, the least he could have done was warn me.

"Yes, yes," he replied, shaking his head emphatically, "but they never come at the same time. Always with Mycroft, it's opening time and five huge muffins. He leaves, and Sherlock comes for his espresso, to help him—recover." Even Angelo, one of the most cheerful men I've ever met, looked the slightest bit subdued at this last part.

"He looked like he was going to keel over," I snapped, abandoning my attempt at remaining calm.

"It's always the same," my boss agreed, shaking his head, "but he never does."

I suppose I was fortunate that Angelo enjoyed long chats about his patrons. Another owner would have told me to shut up and do my job, but he pulled a chair up near the counter and sat down, leaning toward me conspiratorially. "You'd never think one of them works for the government and the other one is a detective, would you?"

"What?" I asked.

"The jittery one," he continued, "got me off a murder charge. Proved to the police I was somewhere else. The other one—I don't know what he does, but I've seen him get picked up from here in cars that looked important. Once, I swear I saw somebody who looked like the prime minister's secretary open the door for him."


	2. Sherlock

**Sherlock**

I went back to my flat that night, feeling unsettled. I knew I should be delighted, elated that my first day of my first job since deployment had gone so successfully. My boss liked me, I hadn't messed up anyone's order so badly that they hated me, and I had no reason to think I couldn't keep working at Speedy's as long as I liked.

Still, there was the nagging memory of our two strange regulars—brothers who missed each other by ten minutes (intentionally?), looked nothing alike, and both seemed to be in pain.

That wasn't Angelo's inference; it was mine. I've always been able to read people and understand them. My downfall is that I can't let it go. Once I know, I care. Maybe this is what I should have started with. Oh well.

I settled in to sleep, hoping my nightmares wouldn't keep me up all night, but I had just started to dose when I heard emphatic knocking on my door. On my way to open it, I grabbed the gun I'm not supposed to have. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by the tall, angular form of Sherlock Holmes, the younger brother with the drug habit.

"John Watson?" he asked.

"Yeah? How do you know my name?" I asked, curious and not feeling particularly threatened. He wasn't shaking this time. He was almost frighteningly controlled, obviously under the influence of a drug of some kind, but not coming down yet the way I'd seen him before.

"Speedy's," he answered, "I saw your I.D. You had your wallet lying next to you on the counter. I also know that you're an army doctor, you just came back from Afghanistan, and I need your help."

I had no idea where to start, so I said the first thing that came into my brain. "You figured all that out while you were coming off a high?"

"The—body is weak, but the brain is unaffected," he said, slightly piqued.

"Keep telling yourself that," I replied, "until it kills your brain cells."

To my surprise, he chuckled. "You're exactly how I expected. Are you ready to come?"

"Come where? Do what?" I recalled my junkie college roommate Ed, who used to want to go walking at 3 a.m.

"I had hoped to save time," he answered, "but if you insist—Angelo is a talkative man who knows I'm a detective. There's no way he wouldn't share that information with his new employee. I'm here because I'm on a case, and I need your help. There's a dead body, and I need someone to come with me who isn't—"

"On drugs?" I asked plainly. He didn't answer, but I could see that I was right.

"Why don't you talk to your brother?" I asked. "I'll go with you if you tell me."

"How do you know we don't talk?" he asked.

"It's—call it a hunch," I said.

"We haven't spoken since I—" he hesitated.

"Since you started whatever you're on," I finished.

He nodded. That part I could understand. That part made sense because I have a sister named Harry with a drinking problem she hates to admit. She doesn't talk to me any more, either.

"All right," I said, "I told you I would go, but I'm in my pajamas. Give me a minute." He came inside and settled his long frame on the lone chair in my living room.

There was a body and a case, and Sherlock solved it in about ten minutes, much to the annoyance of the forensics team and the delight of the police inspector he introduced as Lestrade. Maybe some day that will be the story I tell, but not today.

Sherlock and I went our separate ways, and I got home in the early hours of the morning. I sat on my bed and wondered what strange world I'd entered, where five muffins and an espresso turned into a night of adventure. I had no idea why the younger Holmes had chosen me, but I was beginning to understand how brilliant he was. That made it all more depressing that he couldn't live without meth.

It was Speed. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I deduced the name of the drug from the symptoms.


	3. Mycroft

**Mycroft**

The next morning, I went to work with bleary eyes that reflected the sleeplessness of the night before. Not that it was unusual; at least, this time, I'd had something interesting to do.

At promptly 7:31, the massive figure of the older Holmes brother hove through the door and into view. Just as he had the morning before, he approached the counter, but this time, instead of requesting his muffins, he pointed a long finger toward my chest. "You've taken up with Sherlock, I see."

I didn't even ask how he knew. He was a Holmes, after all.

"Yeah," I said, disliking the pointing and staring. "He's as into his Speed as you are your poppy seed muffins." Not tactful, per say, but direct.

Mycroft's eyes fluttered, but he didn't answer. "He's chosen you," he finally said.

"Chosen me for what?" I asked, leaning forward and fixing him with the most intense scowl I could muster. "This is the real world, with real people, and your brother is a junkie."

"Yes," Mycroft answered mildly. "And he's chosen you. That's why you have to be the one to help him."

"All right," I said, revving in neutral, "supposing he has 'chosen' me, what am I supposed to do about it?"

"It's simple," the older brother answered. "Give him something to look forward to on the other side."

I thought for a moment. "Ok," I said. "I will agree to try this if you eat croissants instead of muffins for a month."

Mycroft stared at me in stony silence, before breaking into a clipped laugh. "You drive a hard bargain, Doctor." He took the plate of croissants I offered and went to his usual table.

Perhaps it seems silly, but I had a method to my madness. I'm no psychiatrist, but I could see that Mycroft Holmes was severely obsessive compulsive, and I knew that if I could give him a good reason to break an unhealthy habit, he would find in a month's time that the anxiety fueling it had lost its power. He knew exactly what I was doing, but I had rightly judged that he loved his brother enough to go along with it.


	4. Friend

**Friend**

Just as he had before, Mycroft left right at 10:00 a.m. Sherlock did not appear for many minutes, and I had begun to worry that something had happened to the man I had accompanied the previous night. Finally, at 10:45, he pushed through the door of the café and staggered inside. I was glad business was slow enough that I had no other customers.

"Quadruple espresso, John," he said.

"Only if we talk while you drink it," I said sharply, wanting to make an impression on his preoccupied mind.

"I could—go somewhere else and get a coffee," he said, his wild gaze lighting on everything and nothing.

"You could," I answered, "but you picked me, and you want to hear what I have to say." I had begun making the drink as soon as he walked up to the building, and by now, I was finished. I held it close.

"You've spoken to Mycroft," he said, shaking his unruly hair and looking at me with red-rimmed, disappointed eyes.

"You've both spoken to me," I said evenly, "and now I want to do the talking." Admitting defeat, Sherlock followed me to a table. I knew I couldn't physically match him if he decided to bolt once he had the coffee, but I didn't think he would.

I was right. He started to drink as soon as the espresso was in his hand, but he didn't attempt to get up. "Listen," I said. "I know what you do, at least something about it. For some reason, you picked me to help you last night. I've never seen anything like that before. What I have seen, Sherlock, is a lot of people with your other habit, the one that makes you come in here wild-eyed and raving every morning. I know what happens to those people. They die."

"I don't care, John," he said. "Living is boring."

I was inordinately glad he'd chosen to use my name. "But what if it wasn't? What if you could go to crime scenes without everybody looking at you like a junkie? What if—we did that all the time?"

I'm not one for big speeches, but like I said before, I have a problem with caring to much. If I'm honest, it wasn't entirely selfless, either. I had loved the night before, and the thought of being a detective—or at least some kind of assistant to a detective—had a certain amount of charm, certainly more than living out my days as the Speedy's barista.

Sherlock was a little bit calmer now that he had espresso in him, and he looked up from his cup and stared me full in the face. "You would do that, John Watson?" Then, after a moment, a statement instead of a question. "You would do that, John Watson."

"There are two things I want out of this," I answered. "Number one, you do whatever it is your brother has lined up for you to get clean."

"Rehab," he practically spat. "Boring."

"Not if I visit you," I answered, "and bring you copies of all the papers and talk over cases with you."

"Still boring," he said.

"But worth it, if you want to have a brain in three years," I retorted. Like I said, I'm direct.

"What is your other condition?" he asked.

"That you talk to your brother before you go," I said.

"I will if you will," he said, almost smiling for the first time since I'd met him.

"What?" I asked.

"I'll meet Mycroft if you agree to contact your brother Harry, the drunk one," he said.

"Oh," I answered, my own smile filling my face. "Harry's my sister, but you've got the rest of it right. I—haven't talked to her for a while."

We sat silent for a short time. "Ok," I said. "You win. If you come here for breakfast with your brother tomorrow, I'll phone my sister."

"Agreed," he said, but I could see fear in his eyes at both things he'd promised to undertake. I didn't envy him. I've seen many people in the throes of withdrawal.


	5. Brother

**Brother**

At 7:30 the next morning, I opened Speedy's Café and served a single table. At it sat a morbidly obese man with an umbrella and a three-piece suit and a junkie with the eyes of a little boy. I brought a tray with croissants, for Mycroft, and an Americano, for Sherlock. I didn't sit with them, but I went back behind the counter and watched from afar.

For a long time, they said nothing. Mycroft attacked the croissants like they were enemy assailants, and Sherlock ate nothing at all. Finally, I heard the older brother say, "They'll be here in half an hour."

"I'm—frightened, Mycroft," the younger answered.

Perhaps that seems like a strange first thing for a little brother to say to the big brother he hasn't spoken to in over a year, but it was fitting, I think.

"It won't be easy," his brother replied, more gently than I would have thought him capable of being, "but there's a future—after." They both turned and looked at me, and I nodded. It wasn't a cheerful moment, but it was a meaningful one, a little bit like the feeling I had when I looked at my army colleagues before they went into battle.

There wasn't much more talking after that, and at 8:00 sharp, a car pulled up on the street outside the café. Mycroft nodded once, and his brother rose. I followed behind them and watched as a smiling woman in a nurse's uniform opened the door for Sherlock. He turned once, and I wondered if Mycroft would embrace him. Instead, he reached out a hand and cupped the younger man's chin for a split second, before turning away. In a moment, the car was gone.

I had only known the Holmes brothers for a split second in time, but I felt like I was watching Harry go away all over again. I wanted Sherlock to make it so badly I could taste the hope inside me.


	6. The Beginning

**The Beginning**

Normally, this would be the end of the story, but it's only the beginning.

You will know, if you've read my other writings, that Mycroft Holmes lost over a hundred pounds. He once admitted to me that it was because, once he'd realized he could live without poppy seed muffins, there were a lot of other things he decided to change in his life. He might be a government operative on a level I can't even fathom, but really, Mycroft is just a guy with issues like any of us.

You will also know that Sherlock beat his addiction. You will have read that he came home and became the detective he'd always wanted to be. You will also know that he didn't just choose me one night after meeting me in a coffee shop. He chose me for the rest of his life—to be his friend, his brother, and his crimesolving partner. I guess, even when he was so high he hardly knew what was going on, he still knew what he was doing. Maybe he was just lucky.

Or maybe I was the lucky one.

I called Harry, just like I'd promised him I would, and it didn't mend our relationship, but at least I got to tell her I loved her. That way, if we never talk again, at least she'll always know.

There's a particular day in the summer of each year, when I haul myself out of bed at 7:30 in the morning and walk the short way to Speedy's Café. It's not a long way from my flat any more; Sherlock and I have a flatshare nearby, owned by a nice lady named Mrs. Hudson.

I sit at a table in the corner, away from the windows, and I order five poppy seed muffins I can't eat and a quadruple espresso I can't drink. And I remember.


End file.
